Medea was still awake, as usual.
Her room looked like someone had rolled a magical apothecary down a flight of stairs. Books stacked in teetering towers, potion bottles crammed on every shelf, scrolls unrolling themselves in the corners. In the middle of it all, Medea slumped over her desk, eyes glazed with exhaustion and something halfway between stress and resignation.
She yawned and pushed aside the alchemy notes in front of her.
"Father's been irritable lately…" she mumbled, resting her chin on folded arms.
She already knew why. Even if he refused to say it, whispers had spread—ugly ones. A band of so-called heroes, led by some guy named Jason, were sailing to take the Golden Fleece. They were close. Too close.
If she could do something to ease her father's burden, she would. But what could she really offer? She wasn't a warrior. Just a girl who knew how to mix herbs and read spells and maybe turn a rat into a teacup on a good day.
Medea stared out her window, watching the pale moon climb the sky.
Then—
"Yo~ Need a hand, Princess?"
A hand slapped against the window frame.
"Ack—!"
Medea jumped so hard she fell off her chair, knocking over three books, two potions, and probably her soul in the process.
A boy swung one leg over the sill and climbed inside like this was the most normal thing in the world. He had messy hair, sea-salted clothes, and the kind of smile that screamed trouble but politely asked if you wanted some.
"My little princess," he said, dramatically clutching his chest. "Is that any way to greet a guest?"
"You—! Who are you?! What are you doing in my room?!"
Medea grabbed the closest bottle she could find—something murky-green labeled "DO NOT DRINK UNLESS YOU LIKE FEATHERS"—and held it like a weapon.
"Relax, relax," the boy said, hands up. "Guards are all taking a nice nap. Just you and me now."
"You—took out the guards?!"
He looked way too smug about it. "What can I say? I'm good at not being where people want me to be."
Outside, Medusa lounged on the steps, spinning a dagger on one finger, looking mildly bored.
Medea scowled. "I get it now. You're one of them. One of those so-called heroes come for the Fleece. I won't let you threaten my father!"
She popped the cork on the potion and brought it to her lips.
"Whoa—HEY!" Cyd lunged forward and swatted the bottle away before she could drink. It shattered against the wall in a puff of angry smoke.
"Okay, first of all, no need to self-pigeonify. Second, I'm not with Jason."
Medea narrowed her eyes. "Then what are you doing here?"
"Look, I'm not here to hurt anyone," Cyd said, backing up a step. "I'm not here for your dad's throne or your neck. I'm here to stop a disaster."
She stared at him, unblinking. "Who are you?"
He bent slightly at the waist and offered a hand. "Someone who's trying to fix the story before it breaks."
Medea didn't take his hand. She just looked at it like it might explode.
"Not gonna lie," he said with a sigh, "it's weird seeing you like this. All… sweet. Wide-eyed. Hugging books. It's like watching a kitten sharpen its claws."
"What are you talking about?"
"Nothing," he said too quickly. "Just… forget it."
He watched her carefully as she picked up her scattered books. In the stories he knew, Medea was terrifying—clever, ruthless, and dangerously in love with the wrong person. She'd helped Jason steal the Fleece, betrayed her family, and casually dismembered her brother. All in the name of love.
And she hadn't even gone full villain yet.
But right now? She was still just a girl with ink-stained fingers and a heart full of conflicted loyalty.
"What exactly do you want?" she asked, clutching the books to her chest.
"I want to make sure this ends without a bloodbath," Cyd said honestly. "For your kingdom. For you."
"Oh?" She cocked her head. "And how do you suggest we do that, hero?"
"Well, first of all—stop calling me that," he muttered.
She pointed to the window. "You can start by jumping out the way you came in."
"Right, see, that's the problem," Cyd said, voice sharper now. "The Golden Fleece? It's a cursed magnet for hero drama. Every swordswinger from here to Olympus wants a piece of it. Jason's just the latest. If it's not him, it'll be someone else."
"You make it sound like we should just give it away."
"I'm saying," Cyd said, "maybe it's time we redirected it."
Medea looked unconvinced. "Father will never allow that. He's preparing trials. Dangerous ones."
"I know," Cyd said. "And Jason's crew? They're not exactly built for diplomacy. If they can't talk their way into it, they'll try to fight for it. But here's the twist—what if the Fleece is taken… without a fight?"
Medea's eyes narrowed. "What are you planning?"
"I'm planning to give Jason exactly what he thinks he wants… and make sure your father keeps exactly what matters."
"That makes no sense."
Cyd smiled slyly. "That's because it's magic."
Silence fell between them.
"You want my help," she said finally.
"I want your brilliance. Your spells. Your illusions. And maybe, if you're feeling generous, one little fake Golden Fleece."
Medea hesitated. "You want to fool the entire Argo?"
"I want to give them a show," he corrected. "Enough of one that they leave singing songs of glory without realizing they've been had. And your kingdom stays safe."
She bit her lip. "Jason won't fall for it."
"He will," Cyd said. "Because he needs to believe it."
Medea stared at him. Not with anger now, but curiosity. This boy had broken into her room, dodged her guards, and was asking her to betray the letter of her duty… but not the heart of it. Not really.
He wasn't threatening. He wasn't begging. He was offering a choice.
And maybe… maybe that's what made him dangerous.
"…Fine," she said, sighing like she was going to regret it. "But only because I think your plan is ridiculous and I want to see how it falls apart."
Cyd grinned. "That's the spirit."
Medea tossed him one of her spellbooks. "Catch. You're going to need a crash course."
Cyd barely caught it before it hit him in the chest. "Heavy reader, huh?"
"Just don't touch anything labeled 'volatile,'" she said, already turning back to her desk.
"Noted." He smirked. "And Medea?"
She glanced over her shoulder.
"Thanks," he said, softer this time.
"…Don't make me regret it."